Broken
by Nova-chan
Summary: John finds Sherlock in an abandoned house, completely destroyed. WARNING: Dark material involving non-con, torture, and general nastiness. Please read with caution.
1. Chapter 1

Marill: I had a lot of debate with myself over posting this here. I posted it anonymous on livejournal and was going to leave it at that, but it was fairly well-received. It is my first time writing a major traumatic abuse fic, and I treated it as a sort of therapeutic experience for myself. That said, there are major triggers within, including rape flashbacks, torture and general nastiness on the part of the villains. If you can't handle these issues, you may want to skip this one.

/

John's phone buzzed in three long dins. It was a message from Sherlock, which was odd because Sherlock normally blocked out his number whenever texting. John was relieved regardless, as his flat mate had been missing for three days. Lestrade and Mycroft had both assured him that it wasn't time to call for a search party until Sherlock had been missing at least a week. That he would turn up, and laugh at John's worrying.

The text was simple: _68 Park End St_. John figured in his head that the address was about eighteen blocks away from the Thai restaurant he was sitting in, so he promptly paid his bill and went outside for a cab.

*~*

It was a cheery little yellow house that matched the address. John tried calling Sherlock to see if the detective would meet him out front, but it rang straight to voicemail. Against his social instincts, John pushed open the unlocked front door of the house and went inside.

The entire first floor of the home was deserted. There was no furniture, no carpet, nothing on the walls. And no Sherlock.

John climbed the stairs to the second floor of the house, which contained only a single hallway with a closed door at the end.

"Sherlock?" John called out. He didn't feel right snooping around the empty house like this, but knew that his friend would have a good reason for summoning him. Or perhaps Sherlock just expected for John to have the charger for his dead mobile.

Slowly, quietly, John opened the door. At first he thought that what he saw was a design on a bedspread, there was so much bright coloring. But even in the dim light, John could tell that whatever it was, it was shaking. The unmistakable sound of stifled moaning was cutting harshly through the otherwise silent room.

Panic flared up John's spine and set his hands to trembling. He groped in the darkness for the light switch and found it quickly enough. As soon as he turned around to face the bed, he wished he hadn't found the lights.

He wasn't sure if he mouthed the words or if he actually said, "Oh god." His hearing seemed to fade out for a few horrific moments.

It was Sherlock, there was no mistaking that. Even amongst the chaotic disarray of cloth, tape, leather and blood, John knew instantly that the quivering, sobbing figure bound to the bed was his flat mate. John was briefly sidetracked by the tacky neon writing on the wall above the bed, which read, in cheerful handwriting, "Happy birthday, John! Sorry I played with your present before you could have a go. Enjoy! Yours forever, M."

Battling the sickening thoughts of what had occurred in that room over the last three days, John was across the room in two seconds, his hands hovering above Sherlock's body, unsure what to do first. Sherlock was blindfolded with black electrical tape covering his eyes and wrapped all the way around the back of his head. His favorite scarf, the only article of Sherlock's clothing that still remained on his body, had been used as a gag, forced roughly into the detective's mouth, if the blood splattered on his cheeks was any indication. Sherlock's wrists were clamped into leather restraints that were attached over and behind his head onto the bed frame. His legs were not similarly restrained, but they needn't be, as Watson realized with a hot flash of anger that Sherlock's right leg was badly broken. His clinician's eye determined that the cause was blunt force, probably from a baseball bat or billy club.

The rest of the appalling details, John saved for a later examination. Sherlock had begun whimpering more frequently when John approached the bed and suddenly he was hyperventilating and twisting in his restraints.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "It's okay. I'm here. You're going to be fine. He's not coming back." _And if he does, I'll tear his face off_ John said to himself. He gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to calm him.

Sherlock reacted violently, screaming around the gag in abject terror. His left leg thrashed against the bed and he tugged at his wrists, causing the bed frame to shake with his motions.

John nearly lost his control then. He felt like fainting or crying or running out of the room. But he couldn't. Sherlock needed him.

"God," John muttered. "I've got to get you out of here…"

Sherlock was trying to talk, his words coming out as senseless garbling. John immediately began untying the gag. Once it was undone, he tucked Sherlock's beloved scarf into his own coat pocket and removed the gritty handkerchief that the scarf had held in place inside Sherlock's mouth. As soon as it was gone, John could make out what Sherlock had been saying. "No more, no more, no more, I want to die, please just kill me…"

Sherlock continued in this vein of thoughts as John struggled to untie his wrists. "You're going to be okay, Sherlock. I'm here. John is here. I've got you. I won't leave you. I won't let anyone touch you at all." Sherlock didn't seem to hear the doctor's pleading voice; he just kept up his despondent litany. Finally, John managed to unfasten Sherlock's wrists from the vile leather restraints. He carefully eased Sherlock's arms down to the bed, one at a time, cringing at his friend's yelps of pain from the cramped muscles suddenly moving.

"John," Sherlock moaned. "Please help me…"

John's eyes stung when he heard the broken, impossibly small voice of his normally unshakable friend. "I'm here, Sherlock," he reminded him. "I'm going to help you. It's going to be all right."

John knew it was a lie. He knew that nothing about this situation was or would ever be "all right." Sherlock had been kept bound like that for days, gagged, blindfolded, tormented, traumatized. He was severely beaten, with broken ribs and a fractured cheek added to his broken leg. There was blood on the mattress between Sherlock's legs, and as hard as he tried, John could not fail to notice what that meant.

John did what he thought would be best for his injured and abused friend: he called for an ambulance.

"Sherlock," John said, softly, placing a hand on the side of his friend's face. "The paramedics will be here soon. Just hold on."

Sherlock still hadn't responded to John's presence, but he no longer flinched away from touch. He mumbled incoherent pleads and apologies, shivering with cold and misery. John wished that the bloody bed at least had a blanket so he could cover up Sherlock in the chilly room.

John stoically continued his examination, deciding that the more information he could impart to the paramedics, the better. He considered removing the gunky tape from Sherlock's eyes, but couldn't bear the thought of pulling at Sherlock's sensitive skin like that. Watson felt his friend's head, palpating it lightly to check for skull fractures or bleeding injuries. As he moved his hands over the sweat-soaked head, he gently ran fingers through Sherlock's dirty hair, trying to soothe and calm with his touch as much as he was trying to check for abnormalities.

Finding no serious injuries there, the doctor moved down to Sherlock's waist, feeling the sharp protruding hip bones that spoke of a couple of days of starvation. That's when he heard an awful noise.

John's head snapped back in disbelief for all of two seconds before he placed his hand gently at the side of Sherlock's left leg. Slowly, with intention that he hoped was obvious to Sherlock, John slowly lifted Sherlock's leg to check what was going on underneath him.

Sherlock immediately stiffened as his leg was lifted. "P-please, sir," he said with trembling lips. "Please p-put your c-cock in my mouth…"

John ignored it. Had to. He would think about the many ways he'd like to slowly kill Jim Moriarty later, when John was alone and Holmes wasn't crying and shaking beneath him. John pushed Sherlock's leg further up so that he would have more access to whatever was causing the buzzing noise. The humming got louder all of a sudden, mechanical and relentless.

"Jesus," John cursed. Someone had cruelly shoved a vibrating sex toy up Sherlock's rear and left it there, turned on. John was suddenly afraid that he might have to reach down and pull the thing out himself. He didn't want the paramedics doing something so undignified to the already humiliated and abused man. At the same time, John didn't want to move Sherlock onto his side to do the job, for fear of causing more pain to the broken leg.

"Sherlock," John whispered, placing a hand on the side of his friend's neck. Sherlock stopped his involuntary begging and stilled. "There," John said, encouraging him. "You're doing great. Can you just talk to me for a bit? I need to ask you a few questions."

Sherlock was silent for a very long moment. His voice broke when he tentatively asked, "John?"

A great sigh went through John's body at the spark of recognition in his friend's shuddering voice. "Yes, Sherlock, it's John. I'm here. You're safe. The ambulance is on its way."

"John, I want to get out of here," Sherlock said immediately. He lifted his chest and shoulders off the bed, unable to even lift his own head from exhaustion. He slumped back onto the mattress, defeated. "John, please, please…I want to go home…"

"We're going to the hospital," John said, firmly. "I can't set your broken leg by myself-"

Sherlock shook his head violently on the bed. "I can't see," he growled. "I want this tape off of my face!" He began to tear ferally at the black tape on his eyes, pulling out lashes and snatches of his eyebrows in his haste. John sat back, not daring to deny Sherlock the ability to see around him. When Sherlock had succeeded, he sank further into the bed, seemingly done-in by the small activity. Suddenly, his eyes dilated and he bore the most terrified face John had ever seen on him. "Wh-what do I…John, I feel something…I don't…oh god, oh god, oh my god, oh god…" Sherlock deteriorated into gasps and frantic curses, reaching a quaking hand toward his hip.

"Shh," John said, quickly, catching Sherlock's hand in his. "It's alright." It was anything but. "I'll take care of it, just…" _Just let me undo the last three days_. "Just try to roll onto your side for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed and allowed John to push him over on his right side. His left leg was carefully placed over his right, allowing both legs to rest on the firm mattress. Sherlock shuddered as the movement irritated every part of him.

John shuddered for a different, angrier reason. In the dip between Sherlock's lower back and his arse, a word had been cut into him with what was likely a small penknife. "Fuckhole," it said, and underneath the vulgar word was a downward arrow. John was very close to letting out a string of violent curses when he heard sirens in the distance. He needed to get the object out of Sherlock before the paramedics arrived.

John sucked in a harsh, deep breath. "Sherlock, I'm going to try to remove it now. Please don't tense up. It'll be a lot less painful if you just relax." Sherlock didn't respond, he simply slumped bonelessly on the bed. John tried to work quickly but gently. He spread Holmes' cheeks with one hand, the other hand rubbing circles in the middle of Sherlock's back. He could see the black, plastic object's base, poking out of Sherlock's entrance. John's second hand joined his first at the site of the intrusion.

"Stop," Sherlock said suddenly, clenching. "I don't want you to touch me."

"Sherlock, either I have to do it now, or the paramedics are going to do it when they get here," John replied, frankly.

Sherlock gasped out a sob as he forced his face into the mattress, his muscles relaxing once again. John quickly latched his fingers onto the intrusive sex toy and pulled, feeling the vibrations in his fingers. Sherlock moaned in pain as it began to slide out. "Just relax," John pleaded. "Relax, it'll be over soon…" The diletto widened in the middle, causing Sherlock to gasp as the widest part of it breached him. After that, John easily removed it and switched it off before tossing it into a corner of the room hatefully.

Sherlock was whimpering and crying by then, and John laid down beside him, cradling him with his left arm. He murmured comforting words into his friend's ear as they heard the paramedics open the downstairs door and start up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

John hovered around the hospital bed whenever he wasn't pacing frantically around the room. Sherlock had gone into shock as soon as the paramedics began their examination of him. He had succumbed to hysterics and thrashed angrily against the two men trying to care for him. It was only John's continued, reassuring touch that managed to calm him and help the paramedics take him into the ambulance.

He was unconscious now, taken away by the heavy anesthetics that were administered so the doctors could reset his tibia. Instead of the blood and bruises covering him before, Sherlock was now swathed in white-bandages, plaster casts and the hospital robe.

John sat in his chair next to the bed, just staring at Sherlock's face, wondering how he was ever going to come back from the torture he had endured. John suddenly had the presence of mind to notify Mycroft, via text, that he was with Sherlock and that they were in the hospital. He didn't doubt that Mycroft knew this already, but he wanted to be sure.

Sherlock was so still, almost frozen. He was attached to a heart monitor and an IV, to make up for his dehydration.

John folded his arms on the bed, laying his head to rest on them. He would be waiting, as long as it took, for Sherlock to come back to him.

/

Mycroft, who always seemed to be in complete control of things, managed to swing open the door and enter with a look of concern. John looked up at him, his expression grave. "John?" Mycroft asked, walking to the bedside. The implied question in his tone was _What in the world has happened?_

"Moriarty," said John, the word a curse on his lips.

Mycroft nodded in a distracted way. His hand hovered cautiously over Sherlock's, as if touching his injured brother might shatter him irreversibly. John knew that nothing would be missed by Mycroft's critical eyes. He could probably identify the types of restraints used, the exact number of hours that Sherlock had been without food or water, the number of men who had...

John halted that heinous train of thought. "He's just out of surgery. Won't be awake for a good while," John explained.

Again Mycroft nodded. His hand found work brushing the tangles away from Sherlock's pale forehead. "The address?" Mycroft suddenly said.

"What?" John asked, on impulse.

"The address he was found," Mycroft clarified. "I'm going to have it checked out. The better to find this...Moriarty and his friends."

"Oh, of course," John said. "68 Park End Street."

With a last fleeting look at his brother, Mycroft said, "I'll return tomorrow. Please let me know if there's any change." He began to walk out.

"Mycroft," John said, beckoning him back. "When you find him, I want to have a _word_ with him."

Mycroft nodded perceptively and left.

/

John's phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibrations startling him awake. He sat up slowly, the awful position he had slept in painful for his neck. John stretched a little and rubbed the side of his face, sleepily. It was the middle of the night; Sherlock was still very much unconscious.

John checked his message. "What do you think? Best birthday ever? M." John suddenly had to stop himself from throwing his phone up against the wall. He wouldn't think of disturbing Sherlock like that, however, so he swiftly began to take his leave of the room, kissing Sherlock on the forehead and whispering a promise to be back shortly.

Once John was outside in the smoking pit, he kicked over a standing ashtray viciously. He kicked it down the sidewalk for good measure before collapsing onto the grass. John sighed and flipped through all of his phone's contacts, trying to find someone he could call and talk to, someone who could help him through this crisis. No one in his contacts seemed to be acceptable counselors at the moment.

The one person whom he could always call in a moment of desperation was lying in the hospital, hovering between life and death. John decided to ignore his own frustrations and anxiety for the moment to return to his dear friend's side.

/

When John entered the room, he was excited for a few seconds to see Sherlock moving slightly on the bed. His excitement immediately turned to panic when he saw the expression on Sherlock's face.

John ran to him, grasping Sherlock's unresponsive hand. Sherlock gasped and writhed on the bed, terror engraved across his eyes and mouth.

"God, no," he moaned. "Don't do this, please…I'm not…just leave me…"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly. "Sherlock, it's me, John. You're just having a nightmare. Everything's all right. You're in the hospital. You're safe. I've got you." Sherlock continued to cringe and wail and try to push John away. "Sherlock, babe…" John whispered, placing his other hand on Sherlock's face gently.

Sherlock reacted violently to the unwanted touches on his face. He shuddered and opened his eyes widely, although he seemed to stare straight through John. "I'll-I'll do it, just…I'll do it. Don't hurt John. Leave him out of this."

John throat tightened reflexively. _God, what had those bastards said to him?_

John reluctantly took his hands away from Sherlock, hoping to get through to him with just his voice. "Sherlock. Listen to me. Really listen," John pleaded. "You're not in that house anymore. Moriarty is gone. Mycroft is going to take care of him. And if he doesn't, I will do so with pleasure." John stopped himself in this useless line of thought. "Sherlock, please look at me. I just want to help you…"

Sherlock's face was covered in tears. "John…" he moaned. His voice didn't convey recognition, only hopelessness.

John tried to put himself in the shoes of an unbiased doctor on Sherlock's case. He knew what he would do for a patient in such a state of distress, but it pained him to even think of it.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock still hadn't calmed down by even a degree. John reluctantly called for a nurse and ordered a light sedative to help Sherlock sleep.

/

Sherlock looked as bad as John felt: defeated, sickly, pained, irritable. He had finally woken up in a rational state of mind. John fussed over him, being overly critical of hospital pillows and food as he tried to arrange everything to Sherlock's greatest comfort. Sherlock didn't protest, didn't try to stop him. He just laid there and let John do as he pleased with the blankets and the collar of the hospital robe.

Finally John forced himself to sit down, so he wouldn't overwhelm Sherlock with his nervous behavior. "Do you…do you need anything?" he wondered, not certain if Sherlock was going to answer him.

Sherlock stared straight ahead and answered, "A gun." John gaped at him, at a loss for words. "Or a razor blade, perhaps," Sherlock added, glancing absently at his wrist.

"That's enough," John barked. "I did not rescue you from that hell just to have you send yourself back there."

Sherlock blinked but didn't respond. John wished that Mycroft would let him know something about the search for Moriarty and his henchmen.

"Sherlock, it's going to be hard…I know that," John said. "We can get you into therapy-"

"No."

John didn't expect any other answer, but it didn't hurt to try. "I'm here, and I won't leave you. You'll get through this. I know you will. You're so strong, and a lot braver than me to have gone through something so terrible and to still be here."

"Won't be for long," was Sherlock's flat reply.

John slammed his hand on the side table in frustration, causing Sherlock to jump. The detective shuddered and rolled onto his side, facing away from John.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, Jesus…" John whispered.

"I want to be alone," Sherlock practically ordered.

"I'm not going to leave you alone right now," John said, standing his ground.

"I'm in a hospital, John," Sherlock growled, turning his head back to glare at John. "How am I going to get my hands on a gun here?"

John frowned at him. His eyes took on a haunted quality as he relived a past experience. "When I was an intern at the psych ward, a patient strangled herself to death with a rolled up blanket _while I was in the room_. If you think I'm going to leave you alone when you're like this, you're…well, you're even more disillusioned than I thought."

Sherlock slumped down across the bed. That was fine with John. Sherlock could sulk and act as childish as he wanted. It was much more preferable than his hysterical state over the past 24 hours.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock finally got the hospital's okay to leave, provided that someone stay with him to help him get around. With all his injuries, it was too difficult for him to use a pair of crutches, so he had to either be carried or wheeled wherever he wanted to go.

Mycroft still didn't have any good news on the Moriarty hunt, but he sent his personal assistant to help John settle Sherlock back into Baker Street.

They arrived at the apartment at around ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning. John was surprised to see Lestrade waiting on the stoop of the flat. He hadn't bothered to visit while Sherlock had been in the hospital, and John had honestly taken offense to that, thinking the officer didn't care. John swore to himself that if Lestrade said even one word about a case that he would break the inspector's nose.

Lestrade hopped up and opened the cab door on Sherlock's side. "Sherlock," he said, quietly, musing on the word. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock remained stoic but deigned to answer. "Fine. Ask me that question again and I will throttle you."

Lestrade chuckled. "Fair enough then." His face darkened. "Listen, we're putting everything we've got into trying to find them. I've been going around personally asking for information. Everyone down at the Yard is working overtime, Sherlock. No one wanted to see this happen to you."

Sherlock sniffed arrogantly. "You'll never find them," he groused.

John stepped into the conversation. "Mycroft will, Sherlock. And Lestrade is doing his best. You don't have to be so hostile."

"Can I go inside now?" Sherlock snapped before anyone else could put their thoughts in. Lestrade got under Sherlock's right arm, while John got under his left, each of them taking a leg and carrying him in a basket hold. Sherlock groaned at the humiliation.

Mycroft's assistant carried Sherlock's small bag of clothing and personal items, and opened the door for them. Within a few minutes, Sherlock was settled onto the sofa in the sitting room.

The assistant was clicking away on his phone. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, politely.

John gave Sherlock a warning glare to silence any inappropriate comments forthcoming. "No," Sherlock answered.

"A blanket, and a cup of tea would be great," John said.

"Three cups of tea?" the assistant asked.

Lestrade and John shared a look before John answered, "Yes, thank you."

Lestrade settled into the armchair across from Sherlock, feeling incredibly awkward around Sherlock's moody silence. John, in a similar predicament, tried to find something on television to interest Sherlock.

A light knock came at the door and Mrs. Hudson tiptoed in. "Sherlock…" she fretted, taking in the sight of him. She tutted and walked across the room to stand next to him. "My goodness, you look dreadful, dear." She removed a strand of hair from his face in a motherly doting way. "I've missed you being around here. It's been awful quiet." She patted his shoulder affectionately. Sherlock remained silent, staring straight ahead. "I've been making soup all morning. I'll bring you up a bowl in a bit." She started to move away before Sherlock's arms clasped around her waist, pulling her hip toward his face. He buried his features in her side and began shaking.

Mrs. Hudson sat down on the edge of the sofa and held Sherlock's sobbing body to hers, whispering kind words and humming little songs until he calmed. 

/

Sherlock refused to sleep in his bedroom, so John made up a little pallet for him in the sitting room. This, of course, just gave Sherlock an excuse to lay on the floor all day. John offered to sleep on the floor next to him at night, or at least up on the couch five feet away, but Sherlock wouldn't have it. After his emotional display with Mrs. Hudson, he was determined to put some distance between himself and the pity of others, as he saw it.

John slept with his door open, encouraging Sherlock to call if he needed something or to ring his cell, which John kept on Loud, right next to his face.

John laid awake for many hours that first night, wondering if Sherlock was all right, wondering if he was scared or suicidal or lonely.

Some time later, John realized that he had drifted off to sleep, because something had woken him up. He sat up in his bed, squinting in the darkness. He didn't hear anything outside of the usual. He checked his phone: no messages and no missed calls. He was almost tired enough to fall back asleep without checking on Sherlock, but with a shake of his head, he clambered toward his bedroom door and down the stairs.

When he made it to the sitting room, he instantly noticed that Sherlock wasn't on the pallet, nor was he on the sofa. Panic was at the forefront of his mind as he dashed around the room. He didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson by shouting if there was no need for it, so he simply looked around the sitting area, calling softly for Sherlock.

He didn't find Sherlock anywhere in the living room or in the kitchen. The pallet was wrinkled and crumpled. Sherlock had obviously gotten up with some difficulty.

John checked Sherlock's bedroom, even in the closet, but couldn't find his flat mate there. He was one room check away from calling the police. His fingers metaphorically crossed, John looked in the bathroom cautiously. The door was open and the shower curtain was drawn. John was reaching for his mobile when he saw the blue curtain rustling.

"Sherlock?" he wondered, entering the small bathroom. He gently pulled back the shower curtain to reveal Sherlock, folded in on himself, save for his broken leg which was stretched out in the tub. "Sherlock," John repeated, "how did you manage to get in here?" He flipped on the lights and saw the sheen of sweat on Sherlock's face and neck. Apparently it had been a difficult task for him to get into the bathtub.

Sherlock looked up at the doctor, an expression of pain on his face. "I woke up," he started, his voice breaking. He paused to clear his throat. "I woke up," he repeated, "and I didn't know where I was. I thought…"

John knelt next to the rim of the tub and pulled Sherlock into a hug. "It's all right," he said, patting Sherlock on his back. "You're safe with me." He pulled back from the hug and gave Sherlock a playfully stern look. "But, I'm staying with you for the rest of the night."

Sherlock's lip quirked up in a slight smile, the first one John had seen since the horrible ordeal began. He helped Sherlock out of the tub and they limped their way back to the sitting room. Sherlock and John carefully, slowly laid down on the pallet, and fell asleep soon after, John's arm protectively wrapped over Sherlock's chest.

/

Marill: I love writing John and Mrs. Hudson cuddles. Lol Anyway, stern warnings apply for the next chapter. There is a pretty graphic flashback, so use precaution when reading.


	4. Chapter 4

This part is somewhat graphic. Please read with caution, or if you are susceptible to triggery images, you may want to stay away. 

/

_He woke up in complete darkness. No, that wasn't quite right. He was blindfolded, but the room was bright beyond the blindfold. His wrists and ankles were lashed tightly and stretched taut so that he couldn't move enough to loosen them. He went through the files in his head, searching for the one that could tell him how he had gotten into this situation, what had happened last._

He'd been on a case. He'd been in an office building, waiting for an informant. It had been someone he'd trusted. Luke Redmond. Early twenties, worked as a legal courier. He'd been a great resource. Luke must have fallen in with someone who wanted Sherlock out of the way. Gotta move Luke to a different folder…

Sherlock ran a diagnostic scan of his body. Bruising around the face, cheekbone likely fractured. Right leg broken, numb yet throbbing. Headache, nausea, ringing ears; likely concussion. He was lying on a very firm mattress, cuffed with leather restraints to the head and foot boards. He couldn't determine how long he'd been unconscious because of the blindfold.

The floor board creaked. "Do you remember what I told you about prying, Sherlock?" Moriarty. "I believe that I was quite clear when I made that point…"

Sherlock sneered in the direction of Moriarty's voice. "Is this your solution, then? Assault me and then frighten me into compliance?" Sherlock was not afraid of Moriarty, he told himself. Not even vulnerable and helpless as he was. All he had to do was outsmart his nemesis.

Moriarty chuckled darkly, brooding. "Do you think I have no imagination whatsoever? No, no. I'm going to break you, and have some fun doing it."

Sherlock took a sharp breath, as he heard other footsteps enter the room, probably acting on some nonverbal signal from Moriarty. He was confused for a moment when he felt someone unfastening the belts on his ankles. Before he could fully comprehend what was about to happen, he was flipped onto his stomach, his arms crossing one another inevitably. He yelped as his broken leg was jerked painfully against the mattress. Sherlock tried desperately to draw nearer to the top of the bed to release the strain on his crossed arms, but before he could make any headway, his legs were refastened into place.

He gasped when a knife sliced through the back of his pants and cut down the left leg. The knife severed the right pant leg as well, and then someone stripped the entirety of the cloth out from under him.

Sherlock was too shocked, too scandalized to say anything at first. When Moriarty placed a caressing finger between his cheeks, however, he found that he could speak. "Get your fucking hands off me! I will murder you, Jim, I will murder you so slowly that you'll wish I would just shoot you!" Empty threats that came from panic. Sherlock couldn't act on them and he knew that.

_Moriarty was not impressed. He clucked his tongue and pulled back his finger. "Sherlock, I don't like it when my virgin says such foul words." Sherlock flinched violently when Moriarty's finger suddenly probed deeply inside of him._

"I swear to god, I'll…" Sherlock gasped as Moriarty pulled his index finger out quickly. Just as quickly, Moriarty had shoved the finger inside Sherlock's open mouth and rubbed against his tongue maliciously.

"Do you like how you taste, sweetheart?" Moriarty said, mockingly. "Mmm…I can't wait to taste you…" The man bent over Sherlock's back and bit at his ear. Sherlock writhed and tried to bite down on Moriarty's finger, but the placement of Jim's hand wouldn't allow it.

_The finger was removed and suddenly Moriarty was on the bed, straddling his thighs. Sherlock heard a zipper undone, and felt Moriarty's hands cupping his arse tightly. "Stop," he said, quietly, as Moriarty spread his cheeks painfully. "Stop, stop. Please just…please stop," Sherlock said loudly, begging pathetically._

_"Oh, no, I can't stop, darling," Moriarty teased. "Ooh, can't stop now…" _

"Sherlock!" The voice snapped his eyes open. Sherlock blinked in the low lamplight of the sitting room. He was covered in sweat, breathing harshly, painfully against his broken ribs.

John was half-sitting, half-lying next to him on his pallet. He looked terribly alarmed in his half-asleep state. "Sherlock," John said again. "Wake up…"

Sherlock blinked at him, turning away for a moment to swipe angrily at the tear in his left eye. "I am awake, John," Sherlock said, irritably.

John took a visible breath in relief. "Sorry. It's just…I've been trying to wake you for two minutes, and your eyes were open the whole time…you were screaming, mate…"

Sherlock looked away. "I'm sorry for disturbing your sleep, John," he said bitterly.

John sighed. Typical of Sherlock to take it that way. "No," John said, patiently. "You just…I was worried about you. You were having a pretty awful nightmare from the sounds…"

"Shut up, now," Sherlock warned. "Go back to your room. I don't want your company right now…in fact I don't want your company for the rest of the day."

John stared at him, mouth agape. "Sherlock…" he said, quietly. He nevertheless stood up, taking up his pillow as he went. "I only wanted to…help," he whispered.

Sherlock frowned and rolled onto his side, angrily. He tried to convince himself that he didn't need John, didn't want him. All John wanted to do was pity him. Pity never worked. It was a waste of energy, and it was degrading. Sherlock could manage this on his own, just as he'd managed all the other struggles in his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Marill: For this chapter, graphic violence, flashbacks, the whole lot but no non-con on this one. So, use caution when reading, k guys? I promise it's going to get better…eventually…

/

John was out; gone to work, he'd said. Sherlock had lost track of the time since then. A few hours into the boredom, he'd called for Mrs. Hudson. The landlady had run upstairs to see what he needed, her fondness for him intensified by his recent trauma. Sherlock got her to run a hot bath for him, although he would have preferred a shower. He wasn't going to wait on John to help him shower, nor would he ask him for help at this point. Never mind the indecency of asking Mrs. Hudson to help with a shower, the older lady wouldn't be capable of supporting his off-kilter weight. So, a bath it was.

Sherlock awkwardly sank into the bath, supporting himself carefully with his left leg and arm, lobbing his right leg off the side of the tub. It was not an ideal situation, but it was what he could manage, and no one had to find out about it.

He leaned back into the warm water, prepared to lie fully on his back when stinging pain flared up in his lower back. Sherlock seethed in pain and quickly sat back up, jarring his battered ribcage detrimentally.

_"Stop yelling, Holmes," said a gravelly voice. "We just want to make a little map so everyone knows where to plow you."_

Sherlock could feel the knife engraving the word into his back, little rivulets of blood trickling off to the side. He gasped and writhed pitifully, feeling the knife plunging deep, deep enough to scar him permanently. "Stop," he croaked, feeling a tear fall from his eye beneath the blindfold. His upper arms shook violently with the tension of being crossed so clumsily and unnaturally for hours. "Don't…don't do this…you don't want to do this…call Mycroft Holmes…he'll clear everything up…everything will be fine…"

Suddenly a violent hand was wrapped around his throat, crushing his windpipe. "If you don't shut up, I'll carve another map going to your mouth, you soft little bitch."

Sherlock coughed for breath as soon as the hand was removed, but he didn't make any vocalizations. The knife continued slicing into the sensitive skin of his lower back, in the shape of an arrow…

"Sherlock?" A sudden knocking alerted him to John's presence at the door.

"What?" Sherlock replied, drowsily.

"Everything all right in there?" John wondered, muffled by the door between them. "I thought I heard you talking…"

Sherlock swiped at the tears on his face. John hadn't heard him talking, he'd heard him _sobbing_ just like a soft little bitch. "Fine. Excellent. Go away," he said, to the point.

There was a pause before John said, "Just…call out if you need anything. I don't want you trying to get out of the tub by yourself either. I'll be just in the other room."

Sherlock sank into the lukewarm water, ignoring the hissing pain from the marks on his back. He had to get a grip. He was close to losing himself completely to this unremarkable thing. 

/

Sherlock was becoming more and more difficult to reach. John found him on the sofa in the mornings, stretched out, staring at nothing. When John returned in the evenings after work, he'd find Sherlock in pretty much the same position. Mrs. Hudson reassured him that Sherlock didn't actually stay like that all day, that most days she was able to coax a little food into him.

John still worried greatly for his friend. It was increasingly difficult not to snap and throw things when Sherlock refused to talk or acknowledge him at all. John found himself staying home in the evenings and calling in to work more and more frequently, concerning himself instead with keeping Sherlock company.

It was a Tuesday night, Sherlock on the sofa, and John on the chair. The TV was turned on, but neither of them was really watching. John's phone buzzed in his pocket and he distractedly took it out to check the message.

_Culprits found. Questioning at Scotland Yard. Sherlock is needed for proper identification. Lestrade._

John's heart began hammering against his ribcage. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was as usual not paying him any attention, just drifting in his body. John didn't know if this news would bring Sherlock out of his stunned condition, or push him even further from John's struggling hands.

"Sherlock," he began slowly. Sherlock only blinked and sighed quietly. "Lestrade says he found your…offenders." John gauged Sherlock's reaction. His friend's eyes were darting to several different places around the room, as if he were becoming aware of it for the first time. "He says that you're needed to help identify them, but I don't necessarily think that that is the most beneficial course of action…"

Sherlock cleared his throat and met John's eyes. "Nonsense, John," he said. "I…need to do this."

/

Lestrade met them outside the interrogation room. He regarded Sherlock solemnly, not noticing how the detective failed to meet his eyeline. "Sherlock, your brother has pulled some strings and arranged for a rather…untraditional identification procedure."

"He doesn't have Moriarty," Sherlock guessed.

"No," Lestrade shook his head. "But he did find two of them…"

"There were only two others," Sherlock confirmed.

"Right. Good," Lestrade replied. He didn't know why that was particularly good. Nothing about the situation was good, except the hope that they had captured the lowlifes responsible for breaking Sherlock. "They're just in here. They're handcuffed, surrounded by guards," Lestrade added as John raised an eyebrow in uncertainty. Lestrade rested his hand on the doorknob. "You're welcome to take as long as you'd like in identifying them, Sherlock." Lestrade paused, trying to reason out the next bit he had to say. "If you think that the guards will be unnecessary, I will have them removed. And, unfortunately, our entire video surveillance system is down. Dr. Watson, you're welcome to go in with him."

John was genuinely impressed with Mycroft's stretch of power. He followed Sherlock blindly into the room, with a nod at Lestrade. "I don't think we'll need the guards."

A few moments later, Sherlock and John were alone with the two heavily built men. John took in the sight of them, not realizing how disgusted he could be by someone on the first meeting. They had certainly been worked over, sporting multiple bruises and bloodied scrapes on their faces. Good. Way to go, Mycroft.

Sherlock forced himself to look up at the faces of the detainees. They didn't look defeated. They looked smug. They _still_ looked smug.

_Sherlock had managed to nudge the blindfold up by rubbing his face against the stiff mattress. His sight no longer impeded, he began to take in the features of the room, trying to discern as much as possible and come up with a strategy before his captors returned. His wrists were clamped in leather straps. If he could reach the straps with his teeth, he might be able to unfasten them, but his legs were clamped at the other end of the bed, keeping him stretched taut._

The door swung open forcefully. Sherlock craned his neck to see Moriarty's henchmen.

"Well, would you look at that," the tallest, brown-haired man said. "I think he wanted to see what we looked like."

The other man snorted. "You shouldn't have done that, Mr. Holmes. We were just about to feed you, too."

Sherlock had gone without food for much longer than he had at this point, but not without ultimately collapsing. He told himself that whatever edibles they might have given him would probably be laced with an underhanded motive, such as a poison or a drug.

The shortest man left the room briefly, and returned with a roll of gaffers tape. He yanked the cloth blindfold off of Sherlock's face and forcefully wrapped several layers of the tape around his head and over his eyes.

"You're going to regret this as soon as someone finds me. And someone will find me," Sherlock threatened. He knew that it was unwise to try intimidating his captors, but it was the only recourse he had to fight back and retain his pride.

A crushing blow to his ribs made him gasp and choke, trying to regain his breath. The men above him laughed as Sherlock's head spun at the pain of his ribs being broken.

"Hand me that," said the taller man. A rustling sound was followed by fingers roughly prying at Sherlock's mouth, holding it open as a grimy cloth was forced into his mouth. Sherlock balked in revulsion and protest, but soon another cloth was fastened tightly around his face, holding the first cloth in place. This one was his own scarf, his ever-calculating mind identifying it by its smell and the particular feel of its woven fibers.

"That ought to shut him up," the second man commented. Sherlock whimpered in spite of himself as a hand landed sharply on his exposed arse.

"Sherlock, for god's sake!" John was coming into focus. Sherlock found himself sitting in a chair, John hovering in front of him nervously. "Sherlock…" John said, realizing that his friend was finally aware of his presence again.

"Fainted just like a blushing virgin," said the taller of Sherlock's previous captors. He was soon silenced by John Watson's fist contacting his eye socket.

"I've seen enough, Sherlock," John said, flexing his hand carefully. "This was…a bad idea…let's go."

Sherlock mutely followed him, not sparing a glance for the two prisoners.


	6. Chapter 6

John sat in their living room, his coffee growing cold beside him, untouched. After he had helped Sherlock hobble up the stairs, the detective had instantly gone to his bedroom and locked himself in. He wouldn't answer John's tentative knocks, so John decided to let him be.

John couldn't help but feel partially responsible for Sherlock's state. After all, if John were a good enough friend, he'd be able to cheer his flat mate up or at least talk to him and comfort him. John, despite Sherlock's opposing belief, had never been skilled at heart-to-heart conversations. He just hadn't been taught to be that way. Not by his parents, not by his school or his classmates, and certainly not by the army. John was more of a pat-on-the-back, you'll be fine, and then make a joke kind of guy.

He decided to call in a pizza. Maybe Sherlock would eat. Probably not.

..

John rapped on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock, I've got pizza. If you want any…and a cherry pizza." No answer. He jiggled the doorknob, finding it still locked. John pressed his face against the doorjam, straining to hear any telltale signs that Sherlock was awake. Or in his bedroom at all. John could make out a straining, hitching breath which betrayed Sherlock's crying. John knocked louder. "Sherlock, come on…let's talk….ok? Please?" He pounded sharply on the door.

John nearly dropped the pizza boxes when he heard a gasp and a loud thud from Sherlock's room. Then Sherlock was screaming. John did drop the pizzas then, and forced the door open with his good shoulder. He raced into the room, calling his friend's name loudly.

Sherlock had fallen out of bed and managed to wedge himself between the bed and the wall. He was clutching his side, fiercely and yelling in his half-crazed condition. John tried to tune out Sherlock's pleads and cries, begging for invisible monsters to leave him, to stop touching him, to leave John alone, to please, please just do whatever they wanted to him, so long as John was safe. John placed one foot on the floor next to Sherlock's thigh, his other leg lying stretched across the bed. Not the most comfortable or convenient of positions, but it would have to do.

John slowly, purposefully placed his hand on Sherlock's face and spoke softly to him. "Sherlock, it's ok. You're back here with me. With John. I'm all right, and you're safe. Calm down…"

Sherlock suddenly lashed out with his fist. It startled John, but he managed to catch his friend's flailing arms, as there was a distinct lack of coordination between Sherlock's limbs and his brain at the moment. "Shh…." John said, holding Sherlock's wrists gently. "Look at me, please."

Sherlock did. A horrified gasp died on his lips when his eyes met John's. The haze seemed to visibly melt from his eyes, but the tears kept falling. "John," he breathed. "They said…they said that they would get you next…that I would have to watch…if I didn't give them what they wanted, they were going to make me watch while they hurt you."

"That didn't happen, Sherlock," John said. He quickly amended himself, "I mean, yes, they did say those things, but they didn't get me. And now they're in prison. Or possibly on a very cramped space shuttle bound for the sun, if Mycroft had any say in it…I'm safe. And you're safe." John paused, watching Sherlock's pitiful shaking and sobbing. "But I want you to talk to someone."

Sherlock glared through his tears. "I don't need a therapist. Therapy doesn't work," he spat.

"Sherlock, I don't know how to help you," John said desperately. "You keep getting worse, and I don't know what to do…"

"Help me…help me up," Sherlock said slowly. John helped pull him back up onto the bed with him, careful not to jar any of the bad injuries. "Just…can you just…" Sherlock seemed unable to complete his request, whether from an excess of pride or a lack of vocabulary.

John understood, regardless. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin body and held him. 

…

John woke up because of a vibration in his pocket. He realized that he'd fallen asleep, Sherlock in his arms, lying almost on top of him. But it was the most peaceful he'd seen his friend since before he could remember, and regardless, he didn't mind either way. Sherlock had his good arm stretched out across John's chest, and his face nuzzled into John's neck.

John had closed his eyes and nearly drifted off again when his phone buzzed insistently at him again. He slowly, carefully reached into his pocket, trying to avoid moving Sherlock or jarring the bed.

_How is he? MH_

John rolled his eyes and texted back a hasty reply. _Why don't you come and see him for yourself?_

John laid the phone beside him on the bed, knowing that there would be something else for him to respond to. Meanwhile, he brushed strands of hair out of Sherlock's eyes.

The phone buzzed and he checked it. _I can't. I'm relying on you to keep me updated. MH_

John turned his phone off. If Mycroft really wanted to know, he would come over. John and Mrs. Hudson would be able to help Sherlock now that the first major battle for his recovery had been won. It wouldn't kill Mycroft to visit. And it wouldn't kill Sherlock for him to stay away. John drifted back to sleep, knowing that his dearest friend was finally sleeping without nightmares. And though those horrible images would probably continue to haunt him for some time, he had finally, _finally _let John in.

…

Marill: And that's the end! Comments, questions, liked it, hated it?


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